


i slithered here from Eden, just to sit outside your door

by cerisedreams



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, there's a lot of um feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 05:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerisedreams/pseuds/cerisedreams
Summary: It’s a heavy price to pay, half of every year to spend in the underworld. But if the flowers can bloom in spring, so can Misty, and soon, she’ll meet Cordelia at the garden of Eden.OR Misty has to go back to hell every six months, and Cordelia’s always waiting for her when she comes back.





	i slithered here from Eden, just to sit outside your door

ORPHEUS: How will you remember?

EURYDICE: That I love you?

ORPHEUS: Yes.

EURYDICE: That’s easy. I can’t help it.

— Sarah Ruh_l_, from_ “**Eurydice**”_

____

###  i.

If you asked her what she sees when she closes her eyes, Cordelia would precariously deny to being haunted by ocean eyes and rowdy golden hair. Sometimes it’s a nightmare, those bright blues crumbling to dust, so brutally tangible she wakes covered in a cold sweat and swears she can feel the ashes slipping through the valley of her fingers.

Sometimes it’s a dream so crystal clear and heavenly, she awakes shuddering, chanting her name like a secret prayer, “Misty.”

Cordelia wonders if she’s gone mad; if the woman who lives inside her head and palms her inner-most thoughts is a product of her scathed psyche rather than a memory of the woman she loves.

She doesn’t mean to ponder on it much, deeming it useless to linger on what could’ve been and timelines that don’t actually exist. When she does allow herself to dwell on it, she’s faced with a feeling she has long since buried, emotions carrying promises of a life that only exists in her subconscious and exclusively plays in her wildest dreams; dreams that bring her grief or delusional joy–and there’s always Misty, an illusion proper to Cordelia’s tortured mind.

“ _ Misty _ .” Her name sounds strange, like a foreigners’ on Cordelia’s tongue. Her presence feels interrupted, almost as if she wasn’t  _ meant  _ to be here; a piece from a different puzzle, jammed into place wherever fits.

The night Misty was lead back home had brought chaos with it. 

_ Who are you? _ Cordelia thought as she intently observed Misty’s shadow stepping through the threshold between heaven and hell, desperately searching for specks of blue beneath the gray fog clouding Misty’s irises. Troubled, right at the eye of the storm.

After the exhilarating thrill came the crushing realization that whoever walked through the fog with Nan wasn’t exactly the woman who showed up at her doorstep looking for shelter that faithful day all those years ago. Lost and uncertain, and so willing to fall into Cordelia. No, this person wasn’t Misty. She sounded like her, acted like her, but the coldness on her skin made the hair on the back of Cordelia’s neck stand up.

It’s not like Cordelia wasn’t grateful to have the witch nestled safely back in her arms, but the twisted,  _ pained _ expression adorning Misty’s face was something Cordelia never wanted to see again. The scornful look didn’t vanish, but rather deepened, casting shadows in the crinkles around her eyes when the witch smiled, echoing deep in her once-joyful laugh. In the wake of her return, Misty carried a distress that stole the light from her azure eyes. She’d not only grown detached from everyone (Cordelia included), but a sour bitterness lingered in the quake of her voice.

No stranger to death, Misty failed to explain how this second chance at life felt different–visceral. She tried to gather her composure as much as she could, but it wouldn’t assemble; it kept splintering into pieces. Chipping away at her bones one day at a time. A constant, nauseating feeling at the bottom of her gut. She felt as though her insides were set on fire, as though someone had ripped the soul out of her body, leaving her a walking carcass.

Regret is an ugly, loaded feeling, and though Cordelia has many, not telling Misty how she felt when she had the chance nears the top of her list. She still doesn’t know how to handle the furiousness which accompanies it. There’s a trail of coffee cups and tea mugs, lined beside forgotten paperwork strewn carelessly all over the desk in her office, as a reminder of all the nights she’s spent debating whether she should confront Misty about what’s causing her so much trouble. 

Perhaps she hopes to never find out.

Now it’s too late; three months too late. Watching Misty struggling with herself is gruesome, too painful for Cordelia to endure without digging up unwanted feelings. Cordelia resolves it’s better to avoid her altogether, squishing the sliver of hope peeking behind her heart. 

_ Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her. Don’t  _ fucking _ think about her. _

Misty thrums like a hummingbird in a cage, robbed of her freedom. Trapped inside her head with thoughts too dark, images too vivid. And it often seems she doesn’t want to be here. It pains Cordelia. She wishes she could soothe Misty’s soul but is left disappointed when the other woman simply pushes her further away.

Which should be  _ fine _ considering Cordelia decided to grant her the space she needed. 

But it’s not  _ fine _ , because when Cordelia sets foot in the greenhouse one morning and practically walks  _ into _ Misty, all remains of self-control and progress gets thrown out the window. Firm hands cling to Cordelia’s waist, keeping her from falling, her small body leaning on Misty’s lean one. Her heart beats rapidly and she curses herself for feeling excited about an insignificant thing like proximity.

Peppermint, lavender, and rain permeate the Supreme’s senses. Cordelia inhales sharply,  _ it’s been so long _ but she’s not about to admit she isn’t quite ready to quit this moment. She’s not sure when she might get another one.

“Shit,” mutters Misty under her breath as she pushes Cordelia off her. 

Cordelia opens her mouth to apologize but decides against it upon being practically shoved away. It’s the first time in weeks Cordelia meets Misty in the greenhouse. “You haven’t been around much,” she offers.

“Haven’t been in the mood for gardenin’ lately.”

“Oh.” Cordelia can’t think of anything else to say. For someone so talkative, Misty’s unusually quiet and gloomy demeanor worries the Supreme to no end. Everything seems to stand still as the women attempt to avoid each other. A long silence falls upon them, and it’s never been so uncomfortable. It feels wrong.

Cordelia decides to speak first since Misty shows no signs of doing so, “How are you feeling?” 

Misty jerks her head toward Cordelia, nostrils flaring, sapphires ablaze with something akin to  _ annoyance _ . The blonde tightens her shawl around her shoulders, brushing off the need to put up a fight.

“Right. Sorry.”

Despite the overly complicated situation, Cordelia can’t deny she longs for her hands, and her lips, and her voice. She longs for the woman she lost, for the piece of her own soul that died with the ashes all those months ago. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

What happens to those unfinished romances where love never really fades, and scars never fully heal, and the rapid staccato of your heart is the telltale sign that reminds you— _ love of mine! Where have you gone? _

It wasn’t falling out of love, nor the absence of it, but being so full that it toppled over the edge and spilled; this fragile, precious thing, barren to the depths of hell. 

As much as Cordelia tries to deny it, she hasn’t been the same since Misty Day came stumbling into her life. Falling in love with her had been so easy, letting her go was the most difficult thing she’d ever had to do.

So she makes up her mind, wraps an arm around Misty’s waist and kisses her with all the pent up emotion she can gather. She kisses Misty and falls under the spell of electrifying blue eyes that strike her spine and light up her nerves until the tip of her toes tingle. Unruly blonde mane, missing all semblance of symmetry. And Cordelia understands why hurricanes are named after people–because the woman in her arms could destroy her, tear down all the walls she so carefully built around her heart, suck the light from brown eyes and steal the magic from her soul–and Cordelia would still love her. Endlessly.

Hurricane Misty.

Ignoring all warnings, Cordelia greedily captures her lips again. She breathes heavily and is left choking when Misty hastily pulls away. “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?” Eyes clouding and mirroring the storm in blue ones, Cordelia tentatively asks, “Is this not what you want?”

The light breeze inside the greenhouse carries the stench of decay with it. It’s suffocating, humid in Cordelia’s airway and she can’t seem to fill her lungs. 

“I don’t know what I want, Cordelia.” Misty twists the rings on her fingers, cracking her knuckles nervously. The hole in her chest deepens with every shallow breath Cordelia takes, and she desperately wants to envelop her in a hug and promise they will be alright, but she doesn’t; she doesn’t because Misty’s not sure if  _ she _ ’ll ever be alright again.

Under the thick layer of hot air, Cordelia manages to brokenly whisper, “When you figure it out, let me know.”

###  ii.

In all honesty, she’s not angry.

No, she isn’t angry that Misty doesn’t want her–she’s devastated.

Feeling quite foolish, she easily tricks her mind into believing she’s over her, that the kiss meant nothing, that  _ Misty  _ means nothing more to her than any of her other students do. That’s all the swamp witch is, right? Right.

Misty herself seems perfectly fine pretending Cordelia isn’t all that important either.

They bump into each other late one night, and they both pretend to be unaffected by the other’s presence. Misty’s palms sweat and Cordelia notices her stiff posture, defensive and tense. Not too long ago, her shoulders wouldn’t be squared rigidly, and her breathing wouldn’t be labored, and instead of disdain, Misty would’ve been met with melting hazelnut eyes filled with excitement for this new, unexplored thing between them. 

Except, their eyes don’t seek each other out, and there’s nothing between them but questions and sore ‘what ifs’. Without uttering a single word, they walk past each other, heading to their own rooms, staving off the hurt as their hands brush.

So, yes. Cordelia goes back to pretending it doesn’t fucking hurt.

Cordelia convinces herself she doesn’t have the right to even  _ look _ at her; undeniable desire, shining beneath hooded eyes and mascara lashes. The Supreme steals timid glances at the taller blonde whenever she can, but doesn’t let her eyes wander for too long–that would be wrong, that would be admitting she hasn’t  _ truly  _ moved on. She desperately needs to believe she has. Instead, she takes small sips of Misty, careful not to greedily swallow her whole. 

It’s enthralling. Misty moves around like she owns the place. And maybe she does; all eyes on her, and she likes it. Cordelia feels her heart leap out of her chest every time she so much as looks at her, completely fascinated by Misty’s evident beauty. A deep blush creeps down her neck, and Cordelia doubts anyone has the right at a peek of such a magnificent soul.

Sip, sip, too much.

Distracted, Cordelia lets herself get lost in Misty, and her gaze must be heavy because Misty’s baby blues are on her, and she smiles that pretty crooked smile, and all Cordelia does is look away, ashamed she’s been caught.  _ Lovesick! _ What a gorgeous secret, terrifying torture.

Every day, between getting dressed and her cup of coffee, she neatly folds her feelings and places them in the bottom drawer of her mind, reminding herself not to want things she can’t get. It’s part of her daily routine, a mantra that will either keep her safe or drive her insane. Cordelia will take either at this point.

She continues to love her in silence. Not fully admitting to it. Within reach, but never allowed to touch her.

Needless to say, she’s left dumbfounded when Misty knocks on her bedroom door in mid-May. It’s way past midnight, around 2am when the air buzzes with the peaceful waves of asleep magic, currents crashing against each other, coming from all rooms in the mansion. The insistent rapping on the wood startles Cordelia, waking her from a familiar nightmare playing on loop.

Tightening the knot on her robe, Cordelia throws the door open, and stares quizzically as Misty leans on the wooden frame. With a mind half-numb from sleep, Misty’s face morphs into that of an angel’s. Cordelia berates herself when the minutes tick by and she’s still fixed on Misty’s lips. 

Misty’s sloppy as she shoots Cordelia a lopsided smile, drawing in a heavy breath of relief upon seeing Cordelia’s face. Her body relaxes and floods with warmth in the other witch’s presence. 

“Misty, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

Misty shakes her heavy head, licking her dried lips as she tries to focus on Cordelia’s words while keeping her balance intact. She stumbles a little, giggle bubbling at the back of her throat. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the Supreme, whose senses are on complete alert now. 

“Are you drunk?”

“You betcha!” Her teeth glint under the room’s faint light, and then she’s laughing, Cordelia’s inhibitions melting away effortlessly. “Maddie said it would take the edge off, but it ain’t workin’. Guess we took it too far though…”

“You probably shouldn’t take any advice from Madison. Especially when it comes to alcohol.”

Eliciting a low hum of approval, Misty shifts on the balls of her feet. “Can I come in?”

Cordelia straightens her back. She steps aside but doesn’t leave her spot close to the door, reluctant to step any closer to Misty and reach out to her. Against the lump in her throat, she’s defiant to let the carefully-built walls between them crumble. “What are you doing here, Misty?”

“I’ve missed ya.” The alcohol bringing out the witch's drawl, a slight slur to her words. “Why aren’t you speakin’ to me?” Misty sits, perched on the edge of Cordelia’s unmade bed, toying with the white sheets, not daring to meet skeptical brown eyes.

“Go to back to your room, we can talk in the morning.”

“But you won’t want to,” she pouts. Liquid courage surges through her. She holds Cordelia’s gaze and hisses, “You’ve been avoidin’ me for months, Delia.”

“That’s not- I–”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“Well, you haven’t been too eager to talk to me either.” Cordelia regrets the bite to her words when Misty ducks her head once again, averting her eyes in shame. The apology dies at the roof of her mouth, trying to stay firm in her decision. “Whenever I’m around you, you close off and everything I do seems to irritate you.” Tears burn at the back of her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. She’s hesitant to say anything when she’s sure Misty won’t even remember in the morning; but then again, maybe that’s a blessing. “What happened to us?”

Misty fidgets in her spot, mulling her hazy thoughts and gaining all the valor she needs to finally admit, “I need you. Lord, I  _ need  _ you so much.”

It’s not so much the admission, but the sorrow and hopelessness laced in her words that make Cordelia falter, face softening. Big chocolate eyes urge Misty to continue, hands bunching up her robe at her sides in fistfuls.

“It’s not like in the stories, y’know? It isn’t some Greek tragedy where I take a bite outta some fruit and shit.” Misty blinks slowly, mind far away. Her words sound defeated, her expression wounded, and who could blame her, really?

All Cordelia can manage is a curt nod in understanding. They haven’t spoken in so long and this is the first few words they exchange, and Cordelia was not prepared for  _ this _ –this conversation, this Misty, this  _ horrible _ feeling at the pit of her stomach. Swallowing thickly, the Supreme tries to school her expression under a façade of indifference, but if the quiver on the younger woman’s lips is any indication, Cordelia is failing miserably.

And she’s so unbelievably tired of fighting against her own heart–she drops the act and finally allows Misty to see right through her.

“Death doesn’t seem so scary anymore.” The mirthless smile across her face does nothing to soothe Cordelia’s worries. “What scares me is that you’ll love me, and I won’t be able to love you back.” 

Her face scolds into a glare, bewitched by a thin veil of darkness. “There’s this void in my chest,” Misty exclaims, raising panic evident in her voice. It builds fast, tethering right on the edge of the cliff. “Nothin’ seems to satisfy it. I can’t feel anythin’, it’s drivin’ me mad, Cordelia.”

Cordelia closes the distance between them, stroking one of Misty’s flushed cheeks with her thumb. In the wee hours of the morning, there’s no room for hiding. “Come here,” she pulls Misty into a warm embrace, filling up the space between Misty’s slightly parted thighs. “You don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”

“When I was down there, sometimes I would hear your voice, I could feel you reaching out to me and I wanted to follow, but I couldn’t break the loop. I thought maybe it was my imagination.”

“I never stopped trying to get you back.” Misty can feel her voice, vibrating through her throat. “I waited a long time for you, Misty Day.”

“I’m sorry, for pushing you away,” Misty concurs. “Somehow, I thought that was best. You’ve got so much goin’ on already, I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

“You’re not.” Cordelia’s statement carries such conviction it leaves no room for argument. She threads her fingers lightly through Misty’s knotted hair. The chill that sits on her chest aches. “Misty, I can’t  _ fix _ you,” Cordelia whimpers. “You’re not some broken vase that can be glued back together.”

“I never asked you to,” Misty says, wiping away a salty tear from Cordelia’s cheek. “Maybe we’ve lived too many lifetimes, Delia.”  _ Maybe this time, I’m not supposed to heal, _ is what she really wants to say. And somehow, as if connected by an invisible thread of silk, Cordelia understands what she means.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

“I know.” Misty smiles despite herself, “I’m not giving up on me either.”

###  iii.

The unforgiving morning in late September when everything is swept from under her nose brings an avalanche of questions to the forefront of her mind, along with a panic she can’t quite put in place.

Cordelia searches high and low for Misty, who vanished from both the heavens and the earth.

She wonders where she went wrong, what atrocities she could’ve committed in another life to be atoning for her sins this way  _ now _ . Christ, is this what her life has come to?

She approaches Coco first thing after breakfast.

“I haven’t seen her. I’m sure she’s fine babe.”

“What if she isn’t?” Cordelia shudders at the possibility of Misty being hurt, or  _ worse _ – “Do you think I’m overreacting? What am I saying, of course she’s fine.”

Coco quirks her brow at Cordelia’s unusual stammering. She places a tender hand on her elbow. “Look, Cords, you have every right to be panicking, but I really doubt something bad happened to her.”

“I don’t know. Something feels off.” The Supreme cracks every one of her knuckles in a nervous haze. “Misty wouldn’t just disappear without telling me where she’s going.”

“Someone’s getting a little possessive, huh?” The teasing manner of Coco’s words fail to make her smile. Coco pouts minutely before turning serious again. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll help you look for her, okay?” She squeezes the spot where Cordelia’s arm bends, offering a kind smile in turn. “She couldn’t have wandered off far. She’s probably adopting every animal she comes across within a ten mile radius.”

“Thank you, Co.”

“What am I here for, if not to chase down my best friend’s girlfriend, right?”

As the day bleeds into the evening, Cordelia’s worries have her a jittering, over-caffeinated mess. Coco had transmuted to the shack earlier with Cordelia, secretly hoping Misty would be there, aware that if she wasn’t there was nowhere else to look. They’d arrived to find the wooden haven eerily quiet. That’s when Damocles’ sword slung off its hinges and slashed through Cordelia’s throat. 

Coco had done her best to calm her down enough for them to be able to return home in one piece. Waiting for them at the foyer was Mallory, and by the looks of it, she wasn’t bearing good news either.

In a daze, Cordelia had excused herself and retired to her room in hopes to find some solace and make sense of it all. That was hours ago.

Now she stares at the ceiling hoping to pinch herself and wake up from a bad dream. The night comes and then the sun rises and Cordelia can’t bring herself to move. In the middle of her stupor, the frost that settles on her bones despite the morning warmth has her feeling restless.

Dancing across the white walls, the slim shadow of a tall man lures over the witch’s head. In her mind’s eye, the ground splits. From this gaping crevice in the ground emerges the awe-inspiring ruler of the underworld. Cordelia is perfectly aware of who this shadow belongs to, but the knowledge does nothing to ease her worries. If Papa Legba is here without being summoned, there is no guarantee of what he might want, what he might claim and take away. Cordelia can only hope it’s not another piece of her soul.

Finally regarding him, she plasters a defiant look on her face–respectful, but unforgiving.

“I’m here to collect what’s mine,” affirms Papa Legba as he towers over Cordelia. His ashened-features harden. The grin plastered mockingly on his lips widens at the perplexed look on the Supreme’s face.

“What?”

“Misty Day.” Cordelia’s heart drops, heavy like a stone, and she’s certain she’s about to puke. She can already taste the bile rising from her stomach. “Eventually, everybody pays. Everybody suffers. What, you thought I was lettin’ her go without something in return?”

“Mallory has an arrangement with you. You owe her.”

“Oh chérie, that poor young boy isn’t enough–”

“She gave you the antichrist, how could he not _be_ _enough_?”

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, entertaining the idea of Michael Langdon before he proceeds to explain, “See, a loved soul is hard to replace, it comes with high price; the antichrist doesn’t know any love. It’s against his nature, foreign in its concept.” He tilts his chin upwards, defiant to Cordelia’s clenching jaw. His chest puffs and he exhales through his mouth, reeking of death. “Misty Day, however…”

Cordelia understands as he trails off. Misty’s nature is based  _ on _ love; it’s the emotion that fuels most, if not all, of her actions and guides her decisions. Misty pours herself into the world around her, squeezed until drained; whatever she touches  _ blooms _ under her fingertips. But she’s never empty, and it’s never a struggle, because Misty’s so inherently passionate about everything, the people around her love her back just as feverently. She’s everything the antichrist is not. “No, you can’t take her away again–”

“She’ll be able to return home, when the first rose of spring blossoms. I’m not takin’ her away forever, it’s part of the bargain. But be warned, I’ll come back for her when the first new moon of autumn is born.”

However can someone split their soul and not derive into madness? It’s an impossible task. She’s about to refute again before the corner of her eye catches a second shadow, splattered on the bare walls. Body-less, it stands beside the voodoo Loa, unmoving but staring right through her, boring holes on the side of her head. When she acknowledges the silhouette, a familiarity in it’s posture, it sends a chill up her spine, morphing into dread. Papa Legba stands, taking the shadow’s hand, ripping the two-dimensional figure  _ out  _ of the wall and into Cordelia’s line of vision. Misty’s watery sapphires flit around the room, panicked and confused, before landing on Cordelia. The silence that ensues is deafening. The fright etched on Misty’s brow is undeniable.

“Please,” Cordelia begs, “please, don’t.” The stream of tears that escape her eyes do nothing to dissolve Papa Legba’s uncaring attitude. She doesn’t even notice them until she tastes them, salty against her lips. “I’m begging you,  _ please  _ don’t take her from me.”

“Shush, witch. It’s done. Don’t torture your soul with that you cannot change.”

“Delia,” Misty exhales. She drops Papa Legba’s hand and narrows the space between the blondes. She extends long fingers toward Cordelia, mutely begging her to take them. Misty wraps her fingers around elegant, slim, clammy hands when Cordelia offers them in return. “Darlin’, if going with him means I can return to you,” she murmurs, her free hand tucking a strand of yellow hair behind Cordelia’s ear. The Supreme picks up on the terror fused to her words; she doesn’t comment on it. “I’ll go through hell and back a thousand times.”

_ Ever yours, my love! _

Misty’s whisked away into the smoke before she can say anything else,  _ i love you _ ’s and mutterings of affection forgotten at the tip of her tongue.

###  iv.

It’s been nine hours, twenty-three days and five months since Misty returned to hell in the arms of Papa Legba, crowned queen of the underworld both unfairly and unprecedented. 

Cordelia often finds herself counting down the minutes until she can kiss Misty again. 

Upon Papa Legba’s promise, she had planted dozens of rose bushes in the greenhouse, just for good measure. Her befuddled mind still mumbles her name in the middle of the night and reaches out for the younger blonde, only to be met with the stiffness of cold, absent sheets. Cordelia often brews two cups of tea for breakfast, and leaves a portion of her plate untouched without thinking, because Misty liked to snatch some of her food. Office hours stretch on for days on end, and her semi-regular trips to the greenhouse do nothing to alleviate the turmoil Misty’s absence caused within her.

Since her departure, Cordelia’s mood plummeted drastically. Every girl in the academy noticed, but no one dares say anything. Partly because Cordelia’s never been so happy as she is whenever she’s with Misty–and even that has been seized from her. Misty is a delicate subject. Coco swears bringing her up is even more delicate than swearing off Jesus’s name in vain.

Zoe’s intervention pisses her off more than anything. And even though it’s not fair to be irked at the brunette for trying to help, well,  _ she is _ . 

The young witch finds her in Misty’s old room, the one they’d kept set up after the Seven Wonders, as a grounding and tangible hope that Misty could come home one day. It’s half empty now that most of Misty’s belongings are on their shared bedroom down the hall. She’d left behind a few trinkets scattered here and there; rings and earrings, crystals and an old, beaten down dress that Misty swore she’d patch up one of these days. Misty never got around to doing it.

Cordelia’s toying with the piece of clothing when Zoe clears her throat. Cordelia chews on her bottom lip, opening up a scab. Zoe can make out the thick longing on her gaze. “She’ll be back soon, y’know?”

Cordelia hums, still fixed on the flowered fabric bunched up in her grasp.

“How do you do this?”

At the question, Cordelia seeks Zoe’s eyes for further explanation. She doesn’t find any. “Do what?”

“Watch her leave, again and again.”

“I don’t know.”

The brunette considers this for a moment. She plays with her thin fingers, shifts her weight from one foot to another. Zoe opens her mouth, closes it and then, “It’s really none of my business, but–”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business, Zoe.” Cordelia swears under her breath. If she doesn’t let go of the dress, she’s sure to rip it beyond repair. “Forgive me. I’m sorry.”

“You should tell her,” Zoe wastes no time to add.

“Tell her what?”

“That you love her.”

“She knows.” Cordelia manages a timid grin, barely there, but present nonetheless. She’s surprised she’s not crying, and Zoe takes that as a good sign. “Misty knows.”

“Tell her again, Cordelia.”

For the last five months, the Supreme had to learn to live with a gaping hole between two lungs; ribs protecting an empty chamber where her heart should be. As she watches the plants wither and die all around her, she feels her own hopes begin to fade as well.

This is living with a ticking heart–a grenade you keep at bay, always the careful eye, but bound to explode. Inevitable doom. Cordelia doesn’t mind. Good god, she doesn’t mind as long as she can kiss Misty again.

Maybe in another life, they find each other without these trials and tribulations.

###  v.

A blood-curdling scream ripples through the stilled hallways of the mansion. Everyone is on their respective classes for the day, chatter dying down when the noise travels through Robichaux’s Academy. The first one to step out is Zoe, doe eyes jumping from door to door trying to pinpoint the piercing scream rattling her bones. The young witch could place that timbre in a crowded room.

When she meets Misty in the foyer, her heart breaks for the sight that awaits her.

Misty’s face is blotchy and red, tears pooling on her cheeks as she holds a scalpel. Her hands are trembling, sticky with the blood gathering under her blunt fingernails. Whiplash from the dimensional rupture disconcert her brain, not able to discern what’s actually real or where she is. In her wit, fleshy intestines spill out of the wound she inflicted upon a living, breathing frog.

Another sob cuts through the air at the memory, followed by the clinking of the knife hitting the white tiles. Misty’s strength taps out and her feet collapse under her. Before she hits the floor a pair of arms twist around her waist, hoisting her up.

The nauseous smell of chlorine is replaced by a delicate floral scent. Small hands grip around her, securely holding her by her armpits before wrapping her in a hug. Zoe’s voice slices through the images of gutted toads and mischievous grins reflecting on silver trays. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you.”

Misty exhales raggedly through her nose, allowing Zoe’s soothing words to settle on her racing mind. “You’re home now, Misty.”

“Zoe. Please d-don’t make me go back– don’t make me go back there.”

“Breathe, breathe, you’re okay.”

Opening her eyes, she catches Cordelia’s gaze within the multitude of familiar faces of the students that surround them.

The Supreme lets her hang on to the brunette for a while longer. She knows Misty needs Zoe’s familiarity, an anchor in the shore in comparison to the awful, dark waves she’s been drowning in over and over again.

When Zoe lets her go, Cordelia wastes no time greeting Misty at the white doors of the institution. Misty always feels safest in Cordelia’s embrace. The brunette lets her go without complaint, shooing the rest of the girls away, back to their assigned schedule. Zoe shoots the couple a shy smile before retreating to her own classroom, giving them their privacy, and Misty is eternally grateful for the people in her life.

There are so many things Misty wants to say, but the tears won’t relent, so she lets her sentences fizzle out on her throat. Misty examines Cordelia’s face for a brief moment, tucks a strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear, and leans in for a much awaited kiss. A kiss that satiates the hunger in her soul, the holes in her spirit; she feels whole again. And it should be wrong,  _ she knows it’s wrong _ , to depend on someone else to make her feel like a person–but the way Cordelia’s lips clash against her own has her mind spinning blissfully.

Later that day, after getting reacquainted and settled in, Misty indulges in those same plump lips and the noises Cordelia makes when she nibbles on them as she drags the Supreme to their bedroom.

She pins Cordelia against the closed door, thriving off the desperate mouth moving against her own. The Supreme’s head bangs against the wood as Misty’s hungry lips travel down her neck, hands running shamelessly down the headmistress’ sides.

A soft moan leaves Cordelia as Misty’s fingers edge the waistband of her skirt. Her touch is cold compared to Cordelia’s burning hot skin.

Misty kneels before the Supreme, nails scratching down the length of pale legs as she drags her skirt down, letting it pool at her feet. Never breaking eye contact, she kisses the inside of her thigh once, twice before the muscles tighten and she pulls herself upwards. Taunting, she catches Cordelia’s jaw in between her fingers, angling it sideways to leave an open mouthed kiss at the base of her throat.

“Wait– wait,” she sighs through her heavy panting. “You just came back. Are you sure?”

“Delia, I want you.” 

How could she say no to that? Cordelia pushes her towards their bed, and before she knows it, the back of Misty’s calves are pressed against the edge of the mattress. With a firm palm against her clothed chest, Misty lets herself be seated. Melting caramel eyes full of mischief are enough to make her insides squirm, heart threatening to burst out of its constraints. 

There’s nothing in the whole world she wants more but to feel Cordelia’s mouth against the darkest crevices of her soul.

Swinging a taunt leg over Misty’s hips, Cordelia straddles her effortlessly. Her hands run through Misty’s golden locks, pulling slightly at the base of her hairline, enjoying the way Misty’s cheeks tint rouge and the grunt that follows. To be honest, it’s not about the display of power, but about the way the swamp witch manages to completely disarm her.

Kissing Misty like this is like touching broken glass. It hurts. It leaves her longing for moments she can’t have. But she’s known for being a masochist. Drunk with whatever emotion Misty stirs inside her, Cordelia lets herself loose.

Calloused hands grip tighter at the curve between Cordelia’s waist and her thighs, and the Supreme can’t help but roll her hips ever so slightly. The eager response sends a rush of heat between Misty’s own legs. 

With teeth biting down at her pulse point, Misty lets out a groan. Her hands travel under Cordelia’s shirt, fingers running along her soft stomach and around to the small of her back. Deftly, her index finger teases up her spine and stops at Cordelia’s bra, unhooking it teasingly.

“Misty,  _ please _ .”

Disheveled and having lost all sense of composure, the ever pristine Supreme looks ethereal in the soft glow of the moonlight, hovering over Misty. It makes her heart beat faster. It makes her pupils dilate. It makes her mind shut down and gives her the courage to finally utter the words she’s been putting off for so long, “I love you.”

Cordelia stares at her as though she grew every single flower on planet Earth. Smiling timidly, she runs her thumb along Misty’s jaw to her cupid’s bow. The swamp witch opens her mouth to suck on the offered finger, and when Cordelia pulls her in for a kiss that leaves her breathless, she knows Cordelia loves her as well.

When fingers hook on her underwear, Cordelia’s breath hitches. Misty pulls on the elastic, letting it snap back against warm skin. Her mind is too clouded with arousal to control herself, so when Cordelia grounds her hips again, she finds herself giving in.

Cordelia guides Misty’s fingers through the length of her slit, running broad circles over her clit. Throwing her head back, blonde hair cascading on her back, this is the moment when she knows for sure what being loved feels like. And when two fingers prod at her entrance she decides to give herself over to Misty however the blonde wants. She moans as she lowers herself on the woman’s long digits, letting her senses fill with  _ Misty, Misty, Misty _ .

###  vi.

In the months Misty’s gone, Cordelia finds herself going to the shack more often than she’d care to admit. 

Coco worries spending that much time in a place where Misty should be  _ but isn’t _ , can’t possibly have a positive effect on Cordelia. And maybe she’s right. Cordelia continues to go anyway. She’s kept it clean and tidy, and what was once a safe haven for one witch, has now become a second home for the both of them. Cordelia genuinely enjoys spending time there, so in touch with Misty’s space, cloaked by the intricate pulse of Misty’s magic that lives within the wood.

It’s charming, the pieces of evidence Cordelia’s left behind, the way her presence has left a trace. There are books scattered around the home, a small coffee machine shoved in a corner of the tiny kitchen, fancy jewelry and she’d even installed a freaking bathtub. Cordelia had covered the gunshot holes Hank left on the walls, and tended to Misty’s garden, taking the liberty to set up a space for her assortment of flowers–rose bushes included. 

She spends some nights over too. When the night falls and the stars twinkle above her head and the rest of the world goes quiet, Cordelia lays alone, swaddled in floral shawls that smell like Misty.

And in the months Misty’s home, the flowers sing joyfully of her return. On those days the cabin glows and in the nighttime, when the spring breeze is fresh and sweet, and the world around them is alive with chatter, they have each other. 

The couple spends most weekends over at the shack, away from prying eyes and their hectic routine. Twenty seven girls living under the same roof could be chaotic at times; Madison stirring up trouble more often than not.

On Saturday night, Fleetwood Mac plays in the background while Misty twirls around, singing lowly. Cordelia sways to the gentle beat of the track while she cooks, wearing an easy smile and allowing the abiding tension on her shoulders to melt away. She even hums along to some of the songs as she mindlessly chops, stirs and throws vegetables and spices on the stove.

“You look happy.”

“I am,” the Supreme answers, holding the younger witch’s gaze and taking a sip of her wine. “You’re here.”

Misty wraps her arms around Cordelia from behind, squeezing at the cinch of her waist. She rests her chin on the space connecting Cordelia’s neck and shoulder, places a trail of fluttering kisses up her nape to the back of her ear.

“Mist! Stop, I’m going to burn this!”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t mind that.” 

Cordelia snorts, flustered at the affection. “Of course you wouldn’t, but I’d rather not light the house up in flames,  _ thank you _ . Can you keep your hands to yourself ‘til  _ after  _ dinner?”

“Well, I can’t make any promises.” Pecking her lips, Misty scrunches her nose adorably at the bitter taste of wine. She pecks her again anyway. 

Cordelia’s voice drops to a low hush, “I promise to make it worth the wait.”

“Can’t argue with that. Sounds fair.” Misty smirks knowingly at the suggestion. “Though you’re askin’ for too much.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Only when it comes to you, baby.” She winks at Cordelia, who beams at her like an infatuated fool.

If there was anything to add to the flirtatious banter, it goes unsaid. As if admiring a piece of fine art, making out the intricate brush strokes and color palette, Misty goes quiet, taking her sweet time marveling at Cordelia. 

“What?”

“You’re just breathtakin’, Dee.” Cordelia ducks her head at the compliment, chest crimson with bashfulness and a hint of arousal. “No, don’t do that. I mean it.  _ Shit _ , if I ain’t the luckiest woman alive.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Misty snickers at that. Flattery  _ did _ get her somewhere–right here in this moment, and this is anywhere she’d like to be. “Dance with me?”

“I’ll need more wine if you want me to do that.”

“C’mon Delia, I’ll keep it nice and simple. I won’t step on your feet, if that’s what you’re scared of.”

It’s funny because, before Misty, Cordelia would’ve sworn she was not a dancer. Hank had futilely tried to get her up and moving on the dancefloor, and Myrtle had tried teaching her ballet when she was a child (also pointless). And then came Misty. Misty with her vibrant soul and playful aura had managed to snatch Cordelia up her feet and before she knew it, her heart danced away happily to the tune of Misty’s love.

They dance, dance, dance and go to bed in a fit of giggles, when the stars shine the brightest.

Misty wakes up earlier than she would’ve liked. So early, Cordelia is still peacefully asleep, curled up beside her with their limbs tangled. The mop of blonde hair fawns over Misty’s chest, tickling her chin, while a slender arm drapes over the dip of her waist. Misty had hogged up the blankets throughout the night, and the sheets were now balled up at their feet. 

The small rays of sunlight filtering through the windows reflect kaleidoscope shapes all over the ivory expanse of Cordelia’s back. Tracing the moles she can find there and connecting them like constellations, Misty lets her mind wander. 

The previous night was an avalanche of tumultuous emotions. Somewhere between midnight and the crack of dawn, the clogs in Misty’s mind conjured up a night terror. 

_ Freak.  _

_ Freak. _

_ Freak. _

She plunged the scalpel deep, twisted it as the sound of flesh and bone marrow rang in her ears. The children kept laughing, urging her on. _ “Mr. Kringley, she did it again!”  _ Her hands moved on their own accord. _ “If you won't dissect a dead frog, then you will dissect a live one.”  _ Blood sputtered everywhere, and it wasn’t until their eyes met that Misty realized she had just stabbed Cordelia. She convulsed as the scalpel dug into her chest, gliding roughly down the skin over her sternum, getting stuck at her diaphragm. The stream of blood spilling from her mouth stained the front of Misty’s dress.

“ _ Misty _ .”

Red rimmed, appalled eyes shimmered under the fluorescent lights of the middle-school lab. The tears pooled at the corners, trapped in Cordelia’s long lashes, and the blood kept trickling down her chin, coppery and sticky and warm. But the wails never came.

Misty had woken up in a silent scream that made her lungs burn. Curls of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead and nape as she scrambled up. Heaving, she’d blindly reached out for Cordelia and she was caught in a cocoon of warmth and pale skin.

“I wished every day to hold you once more,” Cordelia whispered, rubbing broad circles on her naked back, placing a kiss on her shoulder blade. “Now that I have you, I never want to let you go.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Misty had drifted back to a dreamless slumber in Cordelia’s arms–a holy chapel keeping her demons at bay.

She traces Cordelia’s hairline and runs slender fingers through silky hair. Cordelia looks so peaceful, so at ease. It makes Misty’s heart flutter. She doesn’t know what she did to lay claim of these moments, this love from this  _ powerful _ being, this woman.

Misty throws the blankets over their cold feet and drifts back to sleep.

###  vii.

“I cannot do this,” wails Cordelia, head hanging between her hands as she allows exhaustion to take over her body. Painfully, she brings herself to repeat her sentence, just to make sure she didn’t imagine the words begrudgingly coming out of her mouth. “I can’t do this anymore.”

_ God _ , her chest feels even tighter now that she has speweld the rotting truth out, and she admits she’d rather take it back and let it rot inside her chest than commit it to heart and follow through with what she means. Is she really giving up on this?

She wishes Myrtle were here, to guide her, to tell her what to do. Myrtle would know. Myrtle would undoubtedly make the right choice, have the right words to say this without hurting anyone in the process. But Myrtle isn’t here and that’s another person Cordelia’s had to bury, and she really doesn’t want to cry anymore than she already is right now.

“What are you sayin’?”

Misty’s shattered expresion sickens Cordelia. There’s nothing she can do or say to make this better. She sucks on her lower lip until she’s certain she can control her breathing. 

“There’s only so many times I can lose you,” she whines. Heart caught between her teeth, the Supreme can’t believe the words that follow. “You’re hurting me. Please don’t make me go through this again.”

Wide sapphires stare at her. Disbelief runs under Misty’s blue eyes. “You’re not the only one losing here, Cordelia.” When Cordelia huffs, Misty breaks. “Can’t you see I’m hurting too? Do you really think I enjoy goin’ back to that goddamn awful place?” The younger woman runs a hand on the back of her neck and tries with all her might to pull herself together.

Amongst sobs, Cordelia’s tempted to curl into Misty’s body and shield from her own heart. “I hate watching you suffer. Jesus Misty,  _ I love you _ , but I can’t stand in the sidelines while you crumble everytime you come back.” The loud sob that ripples from within her chest makes Misty’s insides twist in a tight knot. “It’s been three years, and we’re still in the same place, I–” Cordelia closes her eyes, pinches her nose with her thumb and forefinger. She sounds exhausted. “I… I don’t know how to  _ fix _ this. There’s nothing else to try.”

Misty takes the hand on her face, kisses every knuckle, laces their fingers, mumbles, “Then I have to go.”

“Not yet, please.”

“Let me go. It’ll be alright.”

Both women are very much aware that’s a lie.

  
  


###  viii.

“How much longer are you keeping this shit show up?” Madison barges into her office, throwing the heavy twin doors open with a swift wave of her finger. She stands before Cordelia, clad in a tiny black dress and the usual pucker on her lips. 

“What?”

“I mean, it’s obvious swampy got you fucked up. Have you looked at yourself lately? Jesus, you’re one step away from losing all your hair,” Madison scoffs, clearly exasperated by the Supreme’s appearance. “I’m amazed you haven’t jumped off a cliff.” 

“Madison–”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m just trying to help.” And if it wasn’t for the way the starlet drops her chin, sounding genuinely remorseful, Cordelia wouldn’t have believed her. “Look, I hate to admit it but… I’m worried about you, okay?”

To say it throws Cordelia off-guard is an understatement. Out of all the things she’d expected Madison to say, she would’ve never imagined that particular sentence voluntarily coming out of her mouth.

“I’m fine.” The blatant lie has Madison's eyebrow flying up to her hairline in disbelief. “Really, I’m alright. I just need to–”

“What you need is some hot piece of ass to get your mind off of the swamp rat,” Madison says with the straightest face; because,  _ of course _ , that’s her two cents. Cordelia’s caught like a deer in headlights, bewilderment written all over her face. “Oh please Cordy, don’t act all high and mighty. We’ve all heard the way she made you  _ scream–” _

“That’s enough–” Cordelia recovers quickly, stands up abruptly, palms flat against the desk and a harsh bite to her words. “Madison that’s enough.”

“Jeez, you’re even more unhinged than I imagined. Can’t you take a joke? No wonder Misty booked her one-way ticket outta here.” Madison smirks and where once was worry, it’s now replaced by malice. “I mean, one look at you and I would’ve bolted too.” The starlet squints at Cordelia, who’s fuming across from her. Madison’s too caught up in her own game to think twice before she quips, “Hell must be a sweet relief–”

With a flick of her wrist, Cordelia has the office doors flying open. The loud bang that reverberates through the building as they hit the walls alarms everyone on the first floor. They clatter against their hinges as Cordelia tries to keep her anger contained.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?!”

“Get out. Madison, get out of my office.”

Madison sneers. She crosses her arms on her chest, determined to get her point across.

“You do not get to speak to me that way! Like it or not, I’m still your Supreme.” Even if her voice quivers, Cordelia’s resolve is intact. “Don’t forget that.”

“Whatever.” And with a roll of her eyes and a dramatic hair flip over her shoulder, Madison straightens her back and sets her chin high in the air. But her feet betray her. She taps the point of her stiletto twice, and drops the sardonic act. Brown eyes meet Cordelia’s briefly, before focusing somewhere behind her head. “Stop moping around, Cordy. Get your shit together, before I bitch-slap you into hell myself.”

And with that, Madison struts out of the office, heels clicking in a furious rhythm.

Cordelia takes a deep breath as she leans back on her chair, closing her eyelids against the burn, letting a single tear roll down her flushed cheeks. She wipes it away with the pad of her thumb.

“Madison’s just being a bitch, as usual. She didn’t mean that.” Coco closes the doors with a soft click, making her way to the older blonde. “Don’t listen to her, babe.”

“She’s right.”

“Um, okay, what the fuck?” If the air weren’t tense with discomfort, Cordelia would’ve laughed at Coco’s outrage. She squints at the Supreme, but it’s not unkind. “Did you just say Madison’s  _ right _ ?”

“Co, I’m being serious. God knows that girl can be insufferable, but she’s right. I have to find a way to reason with him.”

“No offence, but you already  _ tried _ . You’ve been trying for three years now.”

“And where has that gotten us? Where has that gotten Misty? Should I just sit here and wait while she goes dissecting frogs again?”

“I didn’t say that. And you know you have my support, always.” She pauses to mull her words over. “I just don’t want you to make an impulsive decision, and hurt yourself in the process.”

The tears spring without warning, sobbing, ugly and deformed. A headache blooms at the back of her eyes.

“Hey, no no no,” Coco wipes the mascara streaks away, “None of that, c’mon babygirl.”

“God, I’m so fed up of all this crying.”

  
“You’ll figure it out. You always do, alright?”

“I know what I have to do but I–” Cordelia swallows the lump on her throat, fights against the pulsing in her skull. “What if I’m wrong? I can’t be wrong. Not about this.”

“Well, if you don’t try you’ll never know. What else do you have to lose, right?”

_ Everything, and a little more _ . 

  
  
  


###  ix.

They finally meet on a Wednesday. 

White lines of cocaine sit innocently on the bedside table of her bedroom. 

At this point she’s not sure if it’s a peace offering or a bribe–the moral ground on which both statements stand is quite blurry. It doesn’t really matter anymore.

“Papa Legba,” Cordelia says confidently, voice conveying fake strength and her face the façade proper of a collected woman. She’d summoned him, and so, she’d greet him with utmost self-assurance. “I’m ready to make a deal.”

The familiar shadow man glides against the Supreme’s bedroom walls, a laugh deep and dismal bouncing within her skull. Temperature dropping, Cordelia rubs her upper arms in search of heat. She squares her shoulders in a futile attempt at defensiveness. Honestly, she’s scared shitless; the voodoo man has already taken so much from her, she’s not sure she’d survive being stripped of one more layer to her already exposed core. And the worst part is she doesn’t even have anything else to offer.

Papa Legba sits across the Supreme, doubling up in size and power, and it’s obvious Cordelia tries very hard not to cower under his authoritative frame. Mentally protecting her psyche as much as she’s able to, she demands, “I want Misty Day back.”

Using his index finger, he gathers the offered white powder on the tip of his nail. He blinks slowly and takes a long moment to study her, hand mid-air, until he sniffs. Papa Legba leans on his staff with both hands, long nails scratching the wood under his gruff fingers. With a toothy grin, gold piece shining, his heavy accent is torture, “I believe we have been here before, ma chérie. And my answer is still no.”

Cordelia sighs deeply. In fact, yes, they have been here many times before. None of those times matter as much as this one does. 

“There must surely be something you want, something I can give you in exchange–”

“Child, don’t be foolish. Whatever I may want, you’re most certainly not up for the challenge... Or are you?”

_ Yes, I am. I’ll do anything _ .

Cordelia grimaces instead of voicing her desperate thoughts. She’s not about to admit she’d commit any felony, take any life, in exchange for love. That would be terribly selfish, but she can’t deny it’s true. She would do anything for Misty Day, consequences be damned.

As though he can read the most private, inner workings of her mind, Papa Legba grins wickedly. “Very well then, If that’s what you want.” The entity waves his hand gracefully, blood pupils dilating as Misty materializes before them, disheveled and confused.

The back of Cordelia’s throat constricts at the sight of the blonde, and her features twist into hopefulness. She immediately darts up, inches away from Misty, but not quite daring to touch her yet.

Misty whips her head upon hearing her name fall from the Supreme’s lips. Face breaking into a promising smile, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. A relieved tear travels down her cheek, Cordelia reaches out for her, and Misty can't wait to feel her familiar warm skin–

But she can’t.

Cordelia tries to touch her again, only to have her hands fall limply to her side, completely going through the mirage that is Misty.

Papa Legba laughs cruelly, hands firmly on his baton. He inflates his chest, taking pride in having the upper-hand of the situation; he’s in charge of these women's’ faith, and they all know it. “Ah, everything comes with a price, miss Supreme!”

His excitement makes Cordelia’s skin prick, goosebumps rising all over her arms and upper back. She swallows hard and prepares herself for whatever his horrible request might be. Misty’s eyes flit between the pair, and wonders just how far Cordelia is willing to go to claim her back.  _ If only she knew. _

Cordelia nods, at last accepting Legba’s terms.

“I want  _ you _ .”

The air is knocked out from Misty’s lungs. Would Cordelia be willing to trade her life for  _ her _ ? “Delia–”

“It’s alright Misty,” Cordelia reassures, smiling sadly at her. Cordelia locks her brown eyes with red ones, steeled and fully prepared to face anything. She doesn’t stop to consider her actions. She’d called for Papa Legba to make a definitive agreement. There’s no turning back now. “If I give myself over, will you let her go? For good?”

“Of course. You have my word.”

“Okay then, I’ll do it.” Cordelia turns to look at Misty, whose eyes are drowned in unshed tears. They smile at each other, everything unspoken between them vaporizing into thin air because it doesn’t matter anymore. All the hurt and the anger and the happiness, it’ll be nothing but a distant memory in a few seconds, and they both hope the other can understand what they’re trying to convey because they don’t have much time left. 

Papa Legba strides closer to her, extending his hand for the Supreme to shake. Still holding Misty’s gaze, Cordelia wraps her hand around long, white fingers and states firmly, “Deal.”

As soon as she speaks, her senses blur and her mind clouds. Numb. Her mouth feels like sandpaper, her ears ringing. She feels drowsy and tired and cold. With heavy eyelids, Cordelia succumbs into the darkness and closes her eyes–Misty’s piercing sapphires fill her mind, brimming with a certain sweet disposition, and this time, they don’t turn to dust. This time they’re not a trick, they’re real and she can see them and feel them bore into her skin; and it was all worth it.

When she closes her eyes she meets Misty–it’s always Misty.

Until the rug is pulled from under her feet and she’s being shaken awake. A pair of calloused thumbs stroke her cheeks. Grabbing into slender wrists placed on either side of her face, she comes to.

Weak, Cordelia slowly opens her eyes to meet the object of her imagination. Misty is hovering above her, physically unscathed. She looks painfully angelic, and the Supreme wonders if this is just another deception–or maybe it’s her new personal hell, and the woman will just vanish into thin air before her eyes.

It’s not until she speaks that Cordelia realizes this is real, Misty is real, and she can touch her, smell her, hear her.

“Delia, are you okay?”

Blinking in astonishment, her senses are sluggish but she does her best to form a coherent sentence. Misty taps her index finger twice, and then once more,  _ are you real? _ Yes, yes she is and Misty is too. Happy, healthy, alive, and a little scared, but so very, very real. 

Voice lost, Cordelia's mouth opens and closes like a flap in an uncertain formation of meaningless syllables. Happy tears spring to Misty’s eyes.

“I thought you were dead, I- Why’d you agree to do that?” Salty streaks run down Misty’s aflame cheeks. She pulls Cordelia into a fierce hug, breathes in the delicious aroma of vanilla as she buries her nose into perfectly combed, blonde hair. “Lord, I thought I’d lost you.”

Finally coming into reality, Cordelia pulls away to wipe at Misty’s tears. Frowning, Misty feels a heavy sensation sitting at the pit of her stomach. It’s somber, dull, empty; like something is missing. Something has shifted, not necessarily bad, but  _ gone _ . Wildly, she scans Cordelia’s face and holds on a little tighter.

Cordelia is confused. She’s not sure what Misty is fretting about, until she  _ knows _ . Her features etch with realisation. Bewildered, Misty’s mind seems to click a couple seconds later.

She rubs her thumbs over Cordelia’s cheeks again, not quite finding the words to voice either her gratefulness or apologies.

“Your magic. It’s gone, I can’t feel it,” frantically whispers Misty, as if saying it too loud will make it more severe.

A beaming smile splits Cordelia’s face. She laughs joyfully, the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders. Literally. She laughs a bit louder, a bit deeper, and her eyes wrinkle and spark gold reflecting the setting sunlight filtering through the bedroom window. When she regards Misty again, she finally allows her heart to flourish without restrictions. Desire, and a beating heart. She loops her fingers around Misty’s neck, bringing her down for a kiss that feels like dying and breathing for the first time, all at once.

What’s only a few seconds feel like days, but they are forced to pull apart. Licking her lips, Cordelia tastes salty tears and strawberry lip gloss. She runs her hands through Misty’s hair, fingers tangling delicately in soft, golden locks. Nails scratching slightly at her hairline, her hands move to the base of Misty’s neck, traveling further south to her first vertebrae. 

Misty knocks their foreheads together, basking in Cordelia’s touch.

“I’d do anything for you, Misty Day. I hope you know that,” she whispers, afraid of letting this moment dissipate under her nose. 

Misty  _ does  _ know, of course she does, but it’s not until Cordelia captures her lips again that she concedes to it. And she wants to refute, to protest and claim she isn’t worth the Supreme trading a piece of her soul for someone like her. Cordelia’s touch exudes nothing but unfiltered, unabashed affection. It’s like she’s glowing, and Misty doesn’t have the heart to argue with her. Rather, Misty thanks her lucky stars for the woman coddled in her arms. 

The questions pile up in her mind, blurting the first one she comes up with, “What about Mallory?”

“With my power gone, she’s our new Supreme now,” Cordelia explains in a low tone, as to not break the spell they’re under. “Mallory is safe.”

“Are you?”

“We are now.” 

At first there were only ashes, and now, when they least expect it, they’re once more standing in the garden of Eden.

“How I’ve missed you.” Misty’s words resemble a bittersweet déjà vu. It’s familiar as it soothes Cordelia’s mind. Out of reflex, she twirls a blonde curl of hair around her finger. She kisses the crown of Misty’s head before knocking her forehead against the younger woman’s.

When she closes her eyes, Cordelia isn’t haunted by fragments of a memory. When she closes her eyes, she pictures a long life filled with laughter and  _ love _ , no longer trapped within her dreams; and when she opens them Misty is always staring right back at her.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the very first thing I actually finish and I’m very proud of it. So I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did because I still have, um, feelings about this.
> 
> many many many thanks to [Sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonmotels) who’s not only wickedly talented, but also waited patiently while I screamed about this for months, helped me edit and cheered me on endlessly. tysm nena!
> 
> if you liked it lmk? also talk to me [@dirtyrippedjeans](https://dirtyrippedjeans.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, I swear I’m nice


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